


Lights Down Low

by electricblueninja



Series: Conversation Starters For Couples [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Relationship Negotiation, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, coming to terms with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:22:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27934555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricblueninja/pseuds/electricblueninja
Summary: Inspired by Lights Down Low (https://youtu.be/5-xVwxqjNyI)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Conversation Starters For Couples [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2033494
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	Lights Down Low

For a little while, he does not meet my eyes. 

  
  


When he does, it is to grab my tie and pull me into a kiss that, if I were a human, could have been problematic: by the time he pulls away, I feel a little light-headed, despite the fact that I do not require oxygen. 

  
  


That being said, the light-headedness _may_ just be because all of the blood in this human body is on its way, as they say, 'south'.

  
  


I used to think that the anatomy of the human male was pointlessly awkward and unappealing, as though God had been in a questionable frame of mind whilst he was designing it. I don't know what I think of it now. I know that it can be a source of great pleasure, and I know that it can be rebellious at inconvenient times. I also know that I am going to need to adjust my trousers soon, but I don't; not just yet. I worry that if I draw attention to my condition, Dean will become embarrassed, or find it unpleasant. No--it's better to endure it for now. 

  
  


And I still don't know what to make of that kiss.

  
  


"Dean, I need you to tell me. What can I do for you? My understanding of nonverbal communication is still somewhat deficient."

  
  


He swallows. I watch the way his Adam's apple moves under his skin, and I experience a moment of clarity. Whatever it is, saying it out loud is exactly what he does _not_ want to do. Perhaps giving voice to it would make it too real.

But I need him to say it. If he doesn't tell me, I cannot know.

  
  


"Please, Dean. Tell me what I can do for you."

  
  


He gives me a long, pained look before he replies. "You already do too much for me, Cas," he mutters. "I can't just _take._ It's not right."

  
  


"Oh," I reply, and then again, with different emphasis, when the meaning sinks in, " _Oh._ "

  
  


I have shifted my head a little as the realisation dawns on me, and my movements means that I no longer cast a shadow over Dean's face. He frowns into the glare, shielding his eyes against the harshness of the electric light.

  
  


"Kill the lights, Cas. They're too bright."

  
  


My ability to infer meaning from context is, I think, improving. At the very least, I am getting better at what the Winchesters call 'reading the room'--in this case, literally. I suspect that, in this particular instance, for Dean, a darker room is a safer room. It may soften the hard edges of the cruel thing that nestles inside him, and tells him that this is wrong. 

  
  


I do as he asks, and after I flick the switch, the small lamp in the corner is the only source of light that remains. It makes no difference to me: I can see perfectly clearly either way, but for human eyes, it leaves the room dark, with only the very outer edges of any shape gilded by a golden glow.

  
  


I make my way back to him, now leaning back on his elbows, his nipples hard enough to attract the attention of the dim light through the thin fabric of his shirt. He is the very picture of temptation. I do not believe he knows that I can still see everything. If he knew, I do not think he would be able to look at me with that hunger in his eyes. And I am grateful that he doesn't know, because it is a hunger that is flattering to see. I am not used to feeling...desired. Much less being desired by the object of my affection. It is simultaneously humbling and exhilarating. 

  
  


He sits up straighter to free his hands when he feels the mattress sink under my weight again. Shy, cautious fingers push my coat back off my shoulders, and fumble with the knot of my tie and the buttons of my shirt. He pauses at my belt, though, and his hands retreat. We are not quite there yet. Still, the alternative, from my point of view, is more than adequate: he decides to start removing his own clothing instead; pulling his t-shirt roughly over his head, and tugging at his jeans until he is free enough to kick them to the floor. His underwear goes with them, and as he settles back, naked and aroused, he is so painfully beautiful, and so beautifully vulnerable, but I don't dare breathe a word.

  
  


He is visibly uncertain how to proceed. Taking his clothes off, I suppose, is something he knows how to do. It is his 'comfort zone'. Any further, though, and he is stepping into unfamiliar territory. 

  
  


I feel that the best thing I can do is wait, and try to remain unthreatening, so that is what I do. I let him place tentative hands on my shoulders. I ignore the goosebumps that course over my skin as he lets his fingers wander over my torso. His touch is careful; he traces the lines of my collarbone and the muscles of my chest, though he shies away from my nipples. 

  
  


I understand, and I will wait until he is not afraid. 

  
  


The minutes pass, and I just close my eyes, allowing the electricity of his touch to build up like a charge within me, coiling in the core of my being. I wait, and I am rewarded; I can feel his deliberation in his fingers, and hear it in his breath, but he ultimately decides to be brave. The backs of his fingers brush lightly over my stomach as he reaches for my belt. I feel his fingers tremble and lose their grip, but when I move to help him, he pushes my hand away. 

  
  


"Stop it. I'm doing this," he says, and then, when a second attempt fails, "You're making this difficult. Lie down, will you?"

  
  


I am glad that the light is behind me, so he cannot see my smile--it would annoy him if he learned that I find his nervousness endearing. 

  
  


I lie back against the pillows, which makes me as well-lit as I can be in the dim light. The third time, as they say, is the charm, and I raise my hips obediently as Dean divests me of my trousers.

  
  


As I lie back again, I see that the hunger in his eyes is more pronounced. His breath is unsteady. He lies carefully alongside me, his body warm and his erection hard against my thigh, but his hand hovers over my skin, as though there is an invisible forcefield between us: a boundary that he is afraid to cross.

  
  


When he speaks, his voice is barely more than a whisper.

  
  


"Can--can I touch you, Cas?"


End file.
